The Summer King (6 page)

“It was Daisy. She’s in a dreadful state. Ian has left. Packed up and gone. Just a note to say he’s off to England, and nothing else. No explanation, no forwarding address. She’s brokenhearted, poor thing. I offered to go over but she won’t cancel the choir. I’ll go immediately after. Alasdair wants to call the guards, but as I’ve pointed out to them, he’s nineteen and can’t be held prisoner. Best to leave him be for now and pray he’ll keep in touch.”

She sat down at the table and stared at her plate.

Granda frowned. There was an edge to his voice.

“Perhaps it’s just as well. He’s been the odd one out from the day he was born; a colicky baby, a troublesome child, and now a surly and disagreeable young man. He’ll probably be happier away from here and, God knows, we’ll all get a bit of peace without him.”

Laurel was taken aback by her grandfather’s severity. She knew him to be a kindly, soft-spoken man.

He himself looked immediately ashamed and added in a gentler tone to his wife, “You were the only one who got any good out of him. He minded his manners for you.”

She smiled faintly in response.

“I delivered him and I’ve tended him all his young life. He has always been angry, as much with himself as anyone else. I did what I could for him, but I’m not a psychologist and they refused my advice to send him to one. I, too, believe in the power of prayer, but I think the Good Lord expects us to use the resources He provides as well.”

“Perhaps he’ll make a new life for himself,” Granda suggested, “and return one day like the Prodigal Son.”

“We can hope for that,” she agreed, but she let out a deep sigh. “You know, after I coached him in maths and science, he did so well in the Leaving Certificate. And he talked of going to the veterinary college once he worked off the loan for his bike. Now it’s more likely he’ll take up drink and drugs and live on the streets of London with the rest of the homeless there.”

She began to cry quietly. Her husband reached out to hold her hand.

Laurel had to quash a stab of jealousy at the depth of her grandmother’s feelings for Ian. And she was angry too. Didn’t Nannaflor have enough pain in her life? Searching for a way to ease the situation, she decided to raise the question that was haunting her.

“You’re a scientist, Nanna, yet you believe in life after death, don’t you?”

Nannaflor looked surprised, but her eyes lit up. As she dished out the Shepherd’s Pie, she tackled the subject with enthusiasm.

“The great Einstein himself believed in the existence of God and the life divine, and saw no need to seek proof for either. Science handles the practicalities of the body. Faith deals with the needs of the soul. As a doctor, I work by the scientific method. As a Methodist, I believe in our continuance after death, whether it be in heaven or hell.”

Laurel toyed with the food on her plate and took her time before pressing further.

“But … do you think a person who has died could stay around for a while? Or maybe go somewhere else besides heaven or hell?”

Her grandfather started and gave her a keen look.

Nannaflor was sympathetic but firm. “It’s not unusual to dream that a loved one who has died is near, and I think God may allow them to visit us this way, but I would have no time for the occult or the notion of ghosts.”

After supper, when Nannaflor left to visit Ian’s mother, Laurel sought out her grandfather in the library.

Dusk was falling outside the bay window that overlooked the back garden. The evening had grown cool. A small fire burned in the grate. The marble mantelpiece held photographs of the family, ornaments, and an ormolu clock. Firelight flickered over the leather furniture and the shelves of books lining the walls. In the far corner of the room was an antique desk with a computer, printer, and fax machine. Her grandfather was searching through the drawers, perplexed.

“Have you lost something?” she asked him. “Can I help?”

“What, my dear? No, I don’t think so.” His brow furrowed as he cast a cold eye over his collection of books. “It could be anywhere. I use it as a bookmark. A gift from an old friend.” He sighed, shook his head. “I’m growing more addled by the day. It’s retirement, you know. A man should never stop working. His mind seizes up.”

“Dad says you’re still writing papers.”

She was proud of her grandfather, a professor and well-known expert on folklore.

“True. But I’m beginning to think it’s just an excuse to get out of the house and into the college library.”

He came over to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

“Were you looking for me?”

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said, a little shy.

He invited her to sit in one of the armchairs by the fire, while he took the other.

“You didn’t join in the conversation at supper,” she began.

A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth.

“The days are gone when Florence and I fought long and hard over such issues. Indeed, I believe we married so we could continue the arguments at our convenience.”

Laurel smiled back.

“I respect your grandmother’s beliefs and I, too, am a member of the church, but the Good Book itself tells us that in our Father’s house are many mansions.”

Granda stood up to pace the floor, slippers padding softly over the carpet. His hand brushed along the spines of his books.

“Our great poet, Mr. Yeats, spoke of ‘the rise of the soul against the intellect.’”

He pulled out an ancient volume and brought it over to her. Printed in 1815, the hardback was frayed with age, the pages as brown as autumn leaves.
The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns, and Fairies.
Inside, a young hand had scrawled the words: WILLIAM THOMAS BLACKBURN, DECEMBER 1952.

“This was mine as a schoolboy. I almost know it by heart. The author, the Reverend Robert Kirk, was a minister of Aberfoyle who was ‘taken’ by the fairies in the seventeenth century. He swore that he had direct experience of Faerie, and that when he died he would return to that magical land.”

As her grandfather took down more books, little heaps formed around Laurel, on the arms of the chair, in her lap, and spilling over the floor. The titles alone were enchanting.
The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries. The Crock of Gold. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Some were old and smelled of must. Others were new with lavish illustrations on glossy paper.
Faeries
by Brian Froud and Alan Lee. Michael Scott’s
Irish Myths and Legends.
Joseph Campbell’s
The Masks of God.

“Here is Professor Tolkien’s essay ‘On Fairy Tales.’ I like this line.” Granda read out loud, “‘Behind the fantasy, real will and powers exist independent of the minds and purposes of men.’”

Laurel handled the books reverently.
What the Bees Know
by P. L. Travers. Lady Wilde’s
Ancient Legends of Ireland.
Dr. James Hollis’s
Tracking the Gods.
She felt a little lost, as if she were wandering in a foreign land where the language and customs were strange to her.

“This was the kind of stuff Honor loved,” she murmured.

Her grandfather watched her closely. When he spoke again, she could see he was choosing his words carefully.

“For the ancient Irish, Faerie was the place where they went after death. There are those who believe to this day that we can still go there, if we wish.”

Laurel caught her breath. Her heart beat rapidly.

“What do you believe, Granda?”

Old eyes gazed into young and didn’t turn away, but she saw a struggle there and a sudden reluctance to speak. She could only assume it was out of concern for her, or perhaps a fear of ridicule.

“Please tell me,” she persisted.

“I believe,” he began, then frowned, stopped, and tried again. “I believe there is more to creation than either science or religion allows. I believe that a death in one world means a birth in another. And, most of all, I believe that Faerie is one of the rooms in our Father’s house.”

He had no sooner spoken than Laurel felt the other question rise with such force that she had to stop herself from shouting it.

“Can people come back from Faerie? Can they return to this world?”

Her grandfather blanched. She saw his anguish and knew what it meant, his fear for her, and his guilt and regret for leading her to this point.

“I’m the one who brought up the subject, Granda, not you. Please tell me what you know,” she urged. “That’s all I ask.”

They were both suffering, but it was obvious she was determined to see it through.

Though his voice sounded sluggish, her grandfather did his best to respond.

“There are various tales of those who have tried to retrieve their loved ones from the other world. Orpheus. Tam Lin. The first was not successful. The second was. Then there’s the story of Catkin. He was a kitten that went to Fairyland to rescue a child who was stolen when he was minding her. The outcome in that story was a compromise. It was agreed she would spend part of her time in this world and part in the next.”

Laurel could hardly breathe. His words mesmerized her. They were exactly what she wanted to hear. And for that very reason she doubted them. Not so long ago, she would have dismissed them as nonsense or a cruel fantasy. But the shock of her sister’s death had cracked the monolith of her disbelief.
There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.
Wasn’t that from one of Honor’s favorite songs?

Laurel rubbed her forehead. Too many conflicting thoughts.

Granda squeezed her shoulder.

“Have a look through the books,” he said gently. “I think you’ll enjoy them.”

He left her alone curled up in the armchair. The ormolu clock ticked on the mantelpiece. The fire settled into a labyrinth of red embers. A hush fell over the big house. The only sound was the soft fall of rain outside. Poring over the books, Laurel was soon enthralled. There were tales of demon lovers, stolen brides, shape-shifters, and enchanted beasts. Some of the stories were so beautiful they filled her with a strange longing. Others told terrifying accounts of tithes and curses inflicted on humans. A few were so sad she almost cried. At the bottom of the pile was a journal with dried flowers pressed between the pages. The delicate scent of bluebells, harebells, foxgloves, and daisies tickled her nose. A little shiver ran up her spine when a handwritten note listed these flowers as fairy favorites. Did it belong to her grandfather? She touched the dried primroses. Yellow, blue, pink, purple—they looked like colored wafers, tempting to taste. Absently she slipped one into her mouth even as she read that eating primroses allowed one to see fairies.

“Hello,” said the little man.

He was sitting in the chair opposite her, legs crossed, feet above the floor. His appearance had changed from the last time she saw him. He was much tidier. The coppery hair and beard were combed, and the dark-red suit looked new despite its antiquated style. He even sported a waistcoat stiff with gold embroidery. His shoes were of black patent leather with silver buckles. On his head perched a tricorner hat, which also had a shiny buckle. Puffing on a blackthorn pipe, he sent smoke rings toward her that smelled sweet and grassy.

Many of the stories had described folk like him. Before she could stop herself, she asked him outright.

“Are you a leprechaun?”

“Would ye go ’way outa dat,” he said, and chuckled.

Laurel laughed too, surprised at herself and a little embarrassed. The books were obviously influencing her. In fact, she felt groggy from reading so much. Specks of light floated in the air around her. The room was very warm. She must have dozed off. That explained why she hadn’t heard him come in.

“I’m a cluricaun.”

He stared at her boldly, as if daring her to object. Glints of red light shone in his eyes.

“Of the
Fir Dhearga.
‘The Red People’ in your lingo. We’re the more cheerful branch of the family. Leprechauns don’t have the diplomas to deal with your kind. Too cross and cranky, and short on the oul gray matter. This is a tricky situation. I’ve been sent by the High King himself to confab with ye.”

“High King?” Laurel frowned. Her head ached. She felt dizzy. “Isn’t Ireland a republic? I didn’t think it had monarchs.”

The room was definitely too stuffy. Perhaps if she got up and opened a window? But she couldn’t move. Her body felt heavy, like a lump of lead. An inkling of terror crept through her. This wasn’t right. There was an outdoor smell in the room, wet soil and leaves and the night perfume of columbine. Her eyelids began to close. She forced them open. Though the fire was nearly out, red shadows were dancing over the bookshelves. The little man’s silhouette rose up behind him, large and vaguely menacing.

She opened her mouth to yell for help, but instead she yawned.

“Ye’ve got to fight it,” he said, and his tone was urgent. “The solace of sleep. ’Tis your human nature. It wants ye to nod off so ye can tell yourself this is all a dream.”

He leaned toward her, eyes dark and glittering.

“’Tis no dream,
girseach
, and ye’ve got to accept that. We can’t be about our business till ye do. Can I give ye a little hint o’ help? Something to get ye around that wall of logic that bricks in your brain?”

Laurel tried to speak, but couldn’t. Waves of fatigue were washing over her. Her head kept dropping onto her chest. She was overwhelmed by the desire to have a little nap. Maybe lie down on the carpet in front of the fire? The alternative was too bizarre: to continue talking with this little man who looked like one of Santa’s elves.

His tone was suddenly matter-of-fact.

“Look, stick to the essentials and never mind the existentials. Forget all that palaver about fantasy or reality.
Act as if ye believe and see what happens.
Is that too much to ask?”

It wasn’t. In fact, the suggestion was so simple and pragmatic it appealed to her instantly. No need to wrestle with the bigger issues. Take it a step at a time. And Laurel so wanted to believe. She knew the stakes. Either there were more things than she had ever dreamed of, or there was nothing beyond her own experience and philosophy. And if the latter were true, there was no hope for her. She would never, ever see her sister again.